


Red String Stars

by VillainousMoriarty



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gay Male Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VillainousMoriarty/pseuds/VillainousMoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond walks the streets at night when he meets a young boy with combative curls who looks like he'd be a star if stars could be human.<br/>Q is running and he meets Bond, a man who looks like he has star for eyes. They part ways and find each other again. Maybe it's coincidence or maybe it's fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter was 4 and a half pages long in Microsoft Word. This is my first fic with a ship I love a lot. Be harsh or be nice, whichever you want. But I hope you enjoy.

The light had slipped away hours past. The mother’s with their children and the youth of London had long since slunk back to their quarters and away from the dangers of the daunting and dim streets. Looming curved and watching overhead were the streetlights, flickering. James looked up past the buzz of the lights to the sky, looking for traces of stars.  
James liked the stars, he liked them being there— he liked their consistency. They were eternal compared to things— compared to people— in his life.   
So he looked up for them, his eyes straining open against the glare of artificial light. He could not see them here, so down and low and fallen.   
There were no cars to be seen on this road, only to be heard as a back round distraction. The people here traveled in the dark shadows that clung to walls. Bond rolled the paper between his thumb and pointer finger, repeating the name in his head.  
Travis’ Bar, Travis’ Bar, Travis’ Bar.  
He looked around him for any hint of florescent sign advertising the name. He found none so he continued to the next block, walking leisurely across the street.  
Bond had just returned from a mission. Long and arduous as it was he had managed to escape from being deployed once more— at least for a day. He had done what he did: he went to a bar.  
Bond could feel the air grow sharper and his cheeks grow flushed with the chill. He rubbed his nose to bring some feeling back. Bond drew his jacket tighter around his body, hoping to bring the warmth closer and into his bones. He winced as the fabric bunched around his left arm. Stab wound; the knife had been a surprise. 16 stiches and denied pain medication had cleared it up but the medic said he would have to return later in the week for a check up.  
The humming sound of cars went from back round to middle ground as Bond crossed to another block. He saw a car turn around a corner a block down. The myriad of possibilities to deal with aggressors from a vehicle churned through his head; he ignored it for it was merely a reflex.  
Bond began to hum to distract from the cold. It was the tune from a sad little song that a sad little Hispanic woman had taught him years ago.   
He had been on a mission and it was just completed. He returned to the airport by way of a roughly cobble-stoned market. The day was ending in slow colors. The buildings grew so close together they could feel each other’s breath. The booths were ramshackle and obviously made to be moved. But there was something old and honest about the way they looked. Colorful paint had worn down— worn from folding and worn from years. A tiny woman worn from years herself had caught his eye and motioned for him.  
Come, come here, her finger had said.  
Bond took a look down the road ahead and turned his eyes back to the woman. He walked over to her and stood plainly, shoulders relaxed.   
Español? she asked.  
No he told her.  
English then, she affirmed.  
The woman was endearing next to her old stand. Bond could see the crow’s feet by her eyes from smiling and an old kindness in her eyes.  
Let me give you song, she had said.  
He told her he had nothing to pay with.  
No pay, she told him.  
Bond nodded, then, for her to continue. The old woman hummed a lonely song that echoed down the streets with the dotted stands standing left behind. She finished and smiled a sweet smile at Bond.  
You hum to one you love, she told him.  
There is no one I love, he thought. Thank you is what he said. He nodded to her and walked away down the street. She hummed after him.  
He had forgotten the tune for years to come but found himself humming it alone in his flat drinking whiskey. You’re the one I love, he had said to his glass. Bond supposed the lonely streets had brought it back to him once more.   
Sing to the one you love, the woman had said.   
If only there were such a person. A person that chased away pain the way only alcohol did. That made him numb in a happy way and not in the desperate way he was used to.  
Where was that bar? Bond thought. He was beginning to think and that event called for a celebratory shot— or ten.  
“Fuck you, Jeremy.”  
Bond stopped— the switch was flipped on.  
“Don’t you fucking talk that way to me you little shit!” The retort was thrown and fell hard upon silence.  
Bond filtered a sudden sound through his mind; sound of body against— what was it? Think. Brick— sound of body against brick.  
Bond looked ahead on the pavement to where the shadows swallowed a thin entrance back through the buildings. A regular argument, thought Bond. Not my problem and not my business.  
A cry and the thump of body on concrete— footsteps fleet and fast. Louder, Bond realized. They’re coming this way. Bond flattened himself into the blanket of shadows, feeling the brick behind him latch onto stray hairs with snaggle fingers.  
The shape reached the exit, flying out into the yellow light of the lamp. He looked away from Bond then past him.  
It was a kid, late teens at his oldest. Brown curls fought and twisted on his head and fell down to his eyes. A purple brush of color rested across his cheek and the red of blood against white skin— stark white— was seen from Bond’s darkness. He was frightened—  
His fingers were tapping on air as options flit through his eyes.  
Close now to the alley entrance Bond could hear the determined scrape of injured mass on slow feet.  
Quick decision— minor, protect him.  
Bond flitted from the shadows and registered the shock of the boy before bring him close to his body, placing a secure hand over his mouth, and returning to the shadows. Bond felt the wet of blood against his hands and the warm and heavy panicked breath. The boy’s chest was against his as the adversary emerged from the alley.  
He looked around with hungry eyes. Bond knew if he looked closer they would be hazy from the pain. The other was far taller and broader than the first— who was lean and breakable. His hair was cropped short and his features were wide and plain enough to give Bond the impression of stupidity.  
From the light on high Bond saw the glint of it— the glint of metal sharp and biting.  
The man had not yet seen the boy and Bond in their darkness and looked more fiercely through the world with mounting frustration. The boy sneezed into Bond’s hand.   
Well shit, thought Bond.  
The sound drew the broad man’s eyes like a bee to honey. Bond released the boy and flattened him against the brick, covering his body with his own.   
“Get out of the way old man,” the wide man commanded. He adjusted the knife in his hand in a manner meant to let Bond know of its presence.  
No was his reply.  
You’re stupid old guy: the reprisal.  
A sloppy left hook with knife in hand— duck— right uppercut to jaw. Knife clattering to ground and threat compromised. Bond stood full height and looked back to the shadows. The fawn-like boy stood there with an austere expression.  
Bond looked back at him like a mirror.  
“I’d run,” Bond said.  
He didn’t have to say it twice. Bond decided he would go to Travis’ bar another night as he watched the quickly receding back of the milk-skinned boy. 

°°°

Bond returned that night to solace of his own flat. He was weighted from his bones and his eyelids yearned to close— so he let them. Without a drink to help him sleep, he dropped to his couch with a muffled huff.   
The thoughts that possessed tired men on the brink of comfort, the thoughts that caught and kept, came to Bond now. The look of blood on tile floor and the look of wide and fighting eyes that didn’t look anymore. He heard the crunch of bone and of teeth and of so many other things broken over the years. He thought of the people that had come and the people that had gone as all people went. He thought of the hit total and of the marks the strugglers left behind.   
He also thought of the milk-white boy with his combative curls. He thought it was a strange beauty the boy possessed with a split lip that cried blood and bruised face that made the skin sore. There was something pure about the way he panicked and something innocent in the way he trusted.   
If stars were humans, Bond thought, surely that boy would be one of them.  
As Bond fell into sleep his last agreement was that if he ever saw star-boy again, he would say hello.


	2. Red String Stars

Morning had come with the same certainty. The colors receded from the sky and were replaced by a light that took a moment to get used to.  
Q traced the outline of his lip and winced slightly when his finger dragged over the split skin. His hand found its way up to his cheek were the pain traveled all over if he pressed too hard. Q dropped his hands to the railing he leaned against. From here he might see the stars if the light had not chased them away. From here he saw the milling of the people below— the people who knew nothing of everything. Who knew nothing of trips, tricks, and traps.  
For a while he stood there to wish for their blankness.  
He thought, then, of the man with star-eyes who had held him so close he felt his breath on his neck. It was calm and steady and he had not thanked him. He had run— this was what Q was skilled at. That and computers, but those were the reason for the running.  
Q recalled the feel of slight tugs from stubble of the man’s chin against his loose hairs. He remembered the safety of which the man’s chest had reminded him and warmth through the fabric that warmed Q’s hands. There was a sense of rightness with him.  
If Q saw the star-eyes man with the smug, crooked smile he would have liked to say hello.  
“Q you can’t be out here on the roof all day.”— Q turned toward the voice.  
“Oh,” said Q, “It’s just you Nathan.”  
“Yeah, just little old me,” Nathan said, “Now come back downstairs, the boys have it nearly.”  
“Only because I told them how to.”  
“All the same, you should come down and see.”  
Q let Nathan’s suggestion hang.  
“We have to move again tonight.” Q admitted, still looking out over the rail.  
Nathan gave a steady pause, “Some of the guys are going to drop and run, you know that right?”  
“Yeah, I get it. I guess I’m just weeding out the weak right?”  
“We’re weeding out the weak, Q. No one said I was leaving.”  
Q nodded and allowed himself a small smile, “Right. I’ll be downstairs soon.”  
“Do you want me to make the announcement?”  
“Yeah. Tell me who leaves after.”  
“Alright.”  
Q heard Nathan’s feet scuffing back to the roof top door— they paused.  
“How long are we going to be running, Q?”  
Q paused for a moment. He should say something brave and assured, something to inspire the troops, as it were.  
All he could manage was— “I don’t know.”

°°°

Night was only hours away from falling. Q lay slumped against a messy array of pillows propped against the plaster wall. The floor bed was a little cheaper of a lifestyle than he was used to, even on the run. He looked down to the blank paper skin that was taught over bones and to the whisper of hair that disappeared into his boxers.  
Four of his nine had left earlier today. Michelle, Amanda, Andy, and George. Or two, six, three, and eight— as Q called them. He had assigned them all numbers and they had once been 30. Only Nathan and Q had letters, Nathan was R.  
The sound of running water ceased behind a door with peeling white paint revealing a rotted wood beneath. Water damage, thought Q. The door creaked on rusted hinges and Nathan stood in the empty space. He was dragging a towel lazily through his hair and wearing jeans he had owned for years. For the moment he was shirtless.  
“You like to flash me, Nathan?” Q asked, laughing and turning his face away from the half-naked Nathan.  
“You’ve seen me with less clothes, Q.” retorted Nathan.  
“Sure, when we were five!”  
Q and Nathan laughed remembering the days they had time.  
“You fixed the sink? Don’t see why you would, us leaving and all.”  
“Hmm,” Nathan affirmed. “I’m good at fixing things. It helps to clear my head. Like you and hacking except less impressive.”  
“Do you remember when you knocked over my mum’s vase and broke it?”  
“You kidding me? You broke that vase! We were playing super heroes and it caught on you’re cape.”  
“Okay, fine. I broke it. But you glued it back together for me and you were only seven.”  
Nathan laughed a deep laugh with a gust of breath, “And you changed my grades in the school’s website when you were 11. Got me the A I deserved.”  
“Mr. Davis was a bloody terrible teacher.”  
“He was.” Nathan smiled.  
They sat that way for a good time. Nathan put a black t-shit on after he got cold and Q followed suit with a button up.  
“Where’re the rest?” Q asked, breaking the memory.  
“Getting take-out. Chinese.”  
Q nodded vaguely.  
“I told them we’re leaving when they get back.”  
Right, Q replied with a hollow voice. He cleared his throat and braced his hand against the wall to stand. The wood was cool and rough under Q’s bare feet as he retreated to the door.  
“If you get splinters, you’re pulling ‘em out yourself!”  
Q dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. He cleared the doorframe of the bedroom— there was no door now, they had ripped it off when they first came here. It had been rotted anyway.  
The room beyond was large and empty as befitting an abandoned house, except for a tiny trashcan, a moldy couch and a plastic table. He heard Nathan’s steps behind him.  
“We have some business day after next.”  
“Where?”  
“Brady’s Hotel.”  
Q told Nathan he’d remember and crossed the barren room to his red duffle bag and his trainers. He put them on with some difficulty and his fingertips burned the way they did sometimes when he had trouble with his laces.  
“You’re not hungry?” Nathan asked.  
“They group never eats everything they buy, I’ll have left overs.”  
Beat. Pause. Rest.  
“You any closer to hacking it?”  
Q nodded, “I’m waiting for the computer to run some programs. It’d go faster if I had some quality technology. I left my laptop at our last place— we had to leave pretty fast.”  
Yeah, Nathan said.  
The scrape of metal in lock brought Nathan and Q’s eyes to the door. Freddie and his blue hoodie were the first to tumble through the door; Arthur followed and behind him was Zachary. They brought riding with them through the door a cold wind. Olive and Macy jumped through the door and kicked it shut, the door reverberating on its hinges.  
“Get your filthy ass’ through the door!” Macy shouted to the boys.  
“Great, food’s here.” Q smirked and dropped down on the couch in the corner of the room.

°°°

Q had thrown his disposable dish into the plastic trash bag. Arthur, Freddie, Macy, Zachary, Olive, and Freddie had finished and packed up half an hour ago. Their bags were piled around the door and they sat on the damp floor playing a game of cards.  
“Pack up the cards, we’re moving out.” Q ordered.  
They all looked up then to each other then to their bags. They stood and huddled around the pile, picking up their duffels and packs.  
“Where are we going, Q?”  
“There’s a job coming up so we’ll have some cash to go around. We’re going to strike camp in a hotel a little ways away from here.”  
The group nodded in their own time.  
“Everyone sure they want to come?”  
“You said money, right?” Zachary flashed Q a smile and Q did his best to return a convincing one.  
“Move out then,” Q commanded— he picked up his bag on the way out and didn’t look back. Nathan closed the door behind them.

°°°


	3. Red String Stars

It had been three days now since James had met the star-boy.   
“16 stitches,” the medic had said when Bond went in for his post-mission check up. “You’ll be back in working order in about five weeks, four if you don’t strain it.” Bond had argued that they needed him. “There are others 007.” The medic had responded.   
Bloody fantastic.  
Bond quickly dismissed the idea of attempting to find Travis’ bar again and settled for walking around the busy streets of London.  
The days were the worst when Bond had time to waste. Time to waste became time to think and too much reflection was not wanted or wished for. Alcohol fixed that problem and he needed a solution.  
So he came to Brady’s Hotel, though he’d never been before. They had a hotel bar open 24/7— that was certainly enough for Bond.   
The hotel had gone for the old fashioned rich theme— with highly detailed woodcarvings and alarmingly red cushions atop of every chair and bench. The vases that supported voluminous bursts of flowers perched on delicate glass tables dispersed artistically throughout the space. All of it was very delicate; it all seemed so easily broken.  
The bar was down a wooden hall with red carpet, more vases, and with the addition of large portraits of people who looked to have poles stuck up their arses.  
But the bar was found and met by Bond rather gratefully.  
“Whiskey,” Bond told the man when he looked his way. He held up a twenty and told the man to keep them coming.

°°°

“We should have brought a gun, Q.” Nathan whispered into Q’s ear.   
They had arrived downstairs only a mere 10 minutes ago and were waiting in a booth tucked into an easily missed corner of Brady’s Hotel bar. Their clients were notorious drinkers and Q had guessed the presence of alcohol might diffuse any tense situations.   
“A gun to a body and a body to more running. We don’t need a gun, R.” Q replied hastily.  
Nathan sat back into the booth with a frustrated but decided huff. “Fine then. At least go get some damn drinks, that might work as well as a gun.”  
Q nodded; glad to leave Nathan behind to regain his composure. One of R’s explosions would not be an ideal conversation starter. So Q maneuvered his way— gracefully enough, only bumping into a few chairs— to the bar and tried his best to catch the bartender’s attention.  
Q had washed up in one of the hotel’s many bathrooms, but still, he must have looked a mess. He had not yet had the time to shower and Q thought it was four days now, but he wasn’t positive. Though his lip wasn’t an aggressive looking blemish any longer, the bruised cheekbone had turned a sickly green with a red and blue border. His eyes were tired and the skin beneath them drooped like they knew the weight Q held on his shoulders. Not to mention his clothes. The shirt was an acceptable one but wrinkled and covered by a perpetually damp cardigan— Q didn’t own a raincoat and the places he slept were not always dry. Q’s pants were jeans he had worn to run from many. They had the familiar marks of use and scrapes and bangs. His shoes were black, run-down trainers. The aglets on both shoelaces had been lost a long time ago and pieces of blue tape had replaced them to keep the edges from fraying too much.   
Q didn’t think he looked like much. And neither did the bartender, for he ignored him.  
Q let his eyes drop to the wood of the bar. It had no grooves or bumps or blemishes— it was a very inhuman object. Of course it was; it was inanimate and not at all human in the first place. But it made Q think about certain things. It made him think about the uncertainty of his life. About what having a dry home and a fireplace to sit by and be warmed by was like. Most would say Q had a home— that he had a family and that was mostly the same thing. Q had stopped thinking about half-full glasses a great long time ago.   
Nathan was Q’s rock but he wasn’t a home.

°°°

Bond had immersed himself in the way he could see rolling spirits in his drink. Lines one wouldn’t think possibly visible somehow twisted through with the light and angles. The amber drink and all of its spirits, those that possessed his mind and kept it from worry and those that stayed to dance, were a solace unmatched.   
He ran his fingers across the bar and looked for a flaw in the wood— something to busy his idle fingers. The alcohol soothed his mind but not his boredom.  
Bond brought his rough hands to his face and felt the stubble on his chin as he rubbed them back and over his face and his hair. He needed a shave.   
Bond detached himself from the drink before him and swiveled easily in his chair to face the small crowd of the bar. Apparently, Brady’s bar doubled as a restaurant, which was filled with rich old women and their grandsons having a quick brunch. The only person out of place was a young man tucked away in the back left corner. From a distance Bond couldn’t tell looks but he didn’t seem his type.  
Bond thought of the star-eyed boy— and then that he probably wasn’t even legal to shoo the misplaced notion away.  
But still he couldn’t help it, the thought of his eyes wide and round served a distraction crevices in wood couldn’t. But Bond tried still not to think of him— it had been three days and he had not seen him, though he had walked the street they met on again. He, in all likelihood, would never hear or see from the boy again.  
Bond was assured of this falsity.

°°°  
Q had adopted a seat only a few away from the only person left at the bar besides a man talking to himself on the opposite side. The wood of the bar wrapped itself around and met again, creating an oval. The small stools with red cushions were placed at close intervals all around it.   
He gave the man two seats over a quick glance. Gray suit, tailored, not armed— Q could only see his profile though— and handsome. Exceedingly handsome. Q’s eyes flitted down before Bond felt eyes on him.  
The bartender, now finished with richer and richer looking customers, came to Q. He had a wet glass in hand and was cleaning it with a rag.  
“What do you want?”  
Q registered the handsome man’s eyes glance, then down, then back and hold.  
“Uh, a bottle of scotch. Not too cheap, not too expensive.”  
The bartender gave Q a once over and retreated to the opposite side of the oval to find a bottle that matched his criteria. Q sat in silence, waiting, while he could still feel the eyes on him. Was it one of his men? Had they found them already? They should have moved sooner. Should he run, scream, alert Nathan? — no, Nathan was too far away. The man could snap Q’s neck by the time Nathan arrived at this side of the room. He couldn’t run— could he?— no, he couldn’t. He had to take care of his family. He couldn’t run. Q had to get back to Nathan, they would be safer together.  
So he arose from his chair with the composure he could manage and started to make his way back to Nathan.  
Q heard the sound of weight relieving a seat behind him and a soft sound of shoe on carpet. Then a grip, strong and sure— but strangely not menacing. Q turned around and thought— he could scream, they had used aliases that the hotel couldn’t track to report for disturbances. Surely Nathan would be watching now, there was not much else to watch. But maybe he was playing a game on his mobile. Q ruled out Nathan’s help as an option.  
But Q hadn’t looked up the man yet, not really. He was only registering possible threats, only looking for flaws in the man’s design.   
“You,” the man’s voice was deep and playful though Q was sure he wasn’t doing it on purpose. It was on the edge of his mind, where he had heard it before. So he searched for recognition in the man’s face but found it in his eyes.  
Star-eyes.  
“You,” Q echoed.   
The grip on Q’s armed lessened only a fraction and Q felt the urge to have the pressure back again.  
“I mean— uh, hello.”  
“Hello,” the man repeated, he seemed to be getting his bearings back. There went the crooked smile Q remembered. Crooked was really the only way to describe it— but crooked wasn’t imperfect, far from it.  
“Thank you, uh— sir. Thanks.” Q managed to mutter coherently.   
“My names Bond, James Bond.”  
“Q.”  
“Just Q?” James Bond asked.  
“Just Q, Mr. Bond.”  
“Just James is fine.”  
“But we’re strangers.”  
“I hope that won’t be true for long Q.”  
He said his name in a way no one had before. Not in the tender way a mother might and not in playful way of a friend or sibling. It wasn’t the way Nathan said his name with all their memories behind it. It was a new language— it was testing the waters and loving the way the water felt.  
“Hey, boy!” The bartender broke Q’s thoughts. “You want your scotch or not?”  
“Uh,” Q started trying to ignore the way Bond stared at him. “Uh, yes! Give me a moment, please.”  
Q turned back to Bond.  
“It was nice to meet you Mr. Bond,” Q said reaching out his hand for his. “Thank you again, you helped me a lot.”  
Bond gripped Q’s hand in his own and shook slow, never breaking eye contact.  
“You should make it up to me then.” Bond suggested.  
“How do you mean?” Q was interested.   
“I’m free for a month and you seem a far more interesting distraction than alcohol.”  
“That’s…flirtatious. And tempting, of course—”  
“Of course.” Bond flashed a bigger smile.  
“But— ”  
“No buts, Q. Life is short and I fancy a date with you, so say yes.”  
“I have to get back to my table—” Q started to leave but Bond grabbed his hand and pulled him gently around, stepping closer. Bond didn’t loom or tower but he shaded. His head blocked the light fixture from overhead, giving him self and angelic outline. Those star-eyes looked down at him, they were so blue Q thought God had packed all the sad things in his eyes and all the oceans. But that wasn’t logical, Q barely knew this man. But he wanted to know him better.  
“Arm.” Bond commanded.  
Q held his out with only a little trepidation. Bond produced a pen from one of his pockets and began writing numbers on his arm.  
“What are we? In primary school?”  
Bond laughed at Q’s arm and finished writing. “I know you’ll call, but do it soon.”  
He flashed a smile that give his face dimples, then turned and walked away. Q watched his back until it wasn’t there anymore.  
So he went to the bar, paid for the scotch, and returned to Nathan. He had barely seen anything, just the last few moments of the exchange.  
“Who was that?” Nathan asked.  
“I don’t know yet. But life is short and I’m going to find out.”

°°°  
The deal had gone by without a flaw and the bottle of scotch was pretty much empty by the end.  
So they traced the halls to the elevator and stood waiting. But Q didn’t get in when it arrived— he just stood there.  
“You coming?”  
“No, no—I think I’ll take the stairs.”  
“We’re on the fifth floor, though.”  
“I’m 29, stairs shouldn’t be too bad,” Q thought Nathan needed to see him smile, so he did. Nathan’s face relaxed. “Look, I’ll see you okay?”  
“Be careful, more than you usually are.”  
“Right,” Q nodded and smiled at Nathan until the elevator doors closed.  
Q walked to the hotel entrance, through the grand lobby with it’s fragile and breakable chandeliers, and left the hotel. He traced the numbers written in black ink on his skin as he walked. Q decided he liked the way Bond drew his numbers.

°°°


	4. Red String Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience and sorry it took so long to update. You know how life is sometimes. Enjoy!

As Q stood under the hot spray of the hotel shower he thought about Bond. He thought about the way his tailored suit clung to the muscle underneath and the steady way he had written on Q’s arm. He thought of the confidence of James Bond as opposed to his own cowardly actions. Bond seemed sturdy, sturdy and something else Q couldn’t name— but that was only Q’s first impression.

Q beat the tiny bottle of shampoo savagely to salvage the last drops. Opening a slight space in the plastic curtains, Q threw the bottle onto the tiled floor. He ran his hands through his hair, massaging and working in the soap and imagining it all being done by Bond’s broad hands. He let himself picture it, he wasn’t sure yet whether he would even call.

Q had been sure he would call at first. He had been lost in the rush of hormones and excitement— a good excitement— that the enigmatic Bond had brought to him. But he had people beside himself to worry about. He had already compromised the safety of one of his members when this had all started, he couldn’t— he wouldn’t— risk the safety of another.

But the way Bond smiled. The crooked confidence and demeanor, it was nothing less than charming. But Q saw the steel in Bond’s eyes the charm couldn’t hide; Q knew damaged when he saw it and he saw all the marks of misuse on Bond. But Q knew he was damaged goods too. Q knew and knowing was usually enough. Enough to stop him from rushing headstrong and enough to stop him from calling strangers.

Usually.

Q stuck his head under the strong gush of hot water and he desperately hoped for all of his conscious thoughts wash away down the drain. He was tired of thinking ahead, tired of running and deciding when to run. Tired of being so responsible. But Q had burned bridges, too many to even think about rebuilding.  
So he turned the metal faucet, cold under his hand, and felt the water stop and continue to trickle.  
Drip…drip— double drip. Stop.

Q stood there for a few moments, collecting himself. Don’t think about Bond, Q told himself. There will be a time for that and if there isn’t then there is no helping it. Duty before happiness, he thought over and over. It sounded extreme, even in Q’s head— but he was just in that mood. 

Q reached out of the shower and blindly felt around in the general direction of the towels piled atop the toilet. He grabbed a hold on a folded one and brought it into the shower to share in his self-pity.

Q unraveled the towel with a quick flick and wrapped it around his hips, tucking the edge in firmly. He stepped carefully out of the shower, maneuvering around the foot shaped puddles and random droplets his shower predecessors had left behind. He attempted to mop up best he could with a towel left on the ground, guiding it with his foot. He finished and kicked the towel into a corner.

Q took a step and a half to reach the foggy mirror. Q gripped the hotel hair dryer with one hand and succeeded in turning it on after a few tries (his fingers were still wet). After a few seconds of pointing it at the mirror the fog began to dissipate and Q’s image became clearer. 

Q set down the hair dryer after enough of the mirror was visible. He stood there, the muscles in his legs protesting dully and asking silently for Q to sit. Q shifted from foot to foot to relive the discomfort, continuing to look at his disheartening mug. 

He eyes were tired— too tired for someone as young as him. The running had been going on for barely four months, not enough time to transform him into the thing he saw in the mirror. There was an incurable crease in-between his eyebrows and the laugh lines beside his mouth had faded to whispers. Small hints of wrinkles were forming next to his blue eyes. 

Q felt like crying. He felt like taking the hairdryer and smashing it against the glass, he didn’t want to look at himself anymore. He didn’t want to look at the man he had become before he was ready to become a man. He wanted none of this. None of the responsibility that he felt crushing his shoulders into a hunch; none of the worried questions of where the next paycheck was coming from or where they were going to go next.

Q didn’t know. And he wanted them to stop asking, to stop looking to him for all the answers. 

He picked up the brush and tore it violently through his hair, gritting against the pain as the brush dragged tangled clumps. He tossed the brush into the sink with toothpaste stains and it made a clatter as it hit.

Q pushed the bathroom door open, not meeting the eyes of everyone who looked up at him. 

Don’t look up to me, not even if you’re looking towards a sound. Just let me disappear. I don’t feel like existing, Q thought.

He dug through his duffle for clean underwear a t-shirt and pants. He found the first two.  
“Where are my pants,” he asked, perhaps with too calm a voice.  
Macy pointed to the chair in the corner, “I did the laundry this morning.”  
Q nodded curtly and crossed the room to retrieve his trousers. He collected them from the chair and crossed back to the bathroom. He closed the door gently; he didn’t want anyone to ask.

Q dropped the towel and kicked it to the corner with the rest. He jammed his legs through the holes in his underwear and pulled them up and around his waist. Next his pants, the only pair he owned. Then his shirt, a maroon short sleeve, one of the only two shirts he had. 

His cellphone rested on a washcloth by the sink where Q had put it before his shower. He snatched it up now and placed it in his pocket, exiting the bathroom once more.  
“Q—” Nathan started as Q emerged.  
Q held up one hand to stop him, then motioned for Nathan to follow him as he headed for the door.

He stopped briefly and turned, “Don’t leave the room. Try not to make any trouble and for fucks sake, someone clean up the bloody bathroom.”

Q looked for challenges in the eyes of his team— all they looked was shocked scared. Good, Q thought. Speechless is good.

“Nathan and I will be back later. Business.” Q turned and opened the door to leave the hotel room, “Let’s go Nathan.”

As Q left the silent room behind in his wake and entered the desolate hallway a pebble dropped off his load. Nathan’s feet shuffled, stumbled, and then followed Q out.

“Don’t ask.” Q warned as the door closed with a click behind Nathan.

“Wasn’t going to. Eggs?”

“You know me too well.”

“You’re hardly ever like this.” Nathan explained.

Q grunted, “Impressive on my part. Let’s go get some eggs.”

°°°

 

Bond patrolled his dreary flat as the clouded light of London filtered through half-shaded window shades. He looked from his gray couch atop the bleak blue rug to the brick fireplace with a few classic books strewn lazily across it. Most didn’t peg Bond for the reading type and he couldn’t say he didn’t like defying people’s expectations.

It had been double-digit drinks and two days since he had scrawled his number on just-Q’s arm. It had been firmer than he expected, especially on one who looked to be a close cousin to porcelain. The boy hadn’t called and every time Bond wasn’t exclusively focused on a task or blurred by booze his mind dragged him back to replaying the meeting.

The boy’s smile belonged to the stars and the heavens. There was a subtle ethereal quality sown into the humility. There were levels to Q Bond had sensed. Deeper demons and secrets and burdens he carried with him. 

Bond knew broken when he saw it.

He liked Q’s practical caution. And he liked Q in general; there was an undisputable attraction that most would call a spark. In Bond’s profession and experience, he called it a distraction. 

He didn’t know, though, if Q was one he could resist.

°°°

Nathan had helped Q escape for a few hours. They had stopped by a corner store to purchase a few dozen eggs and then headed to a wall they could decorate with yolks in peace.

When Q and Nathan were children Q would come from his parents house after a screaming match leaving scars on both sides. A day or two would usually let things settle— Q’s family never talked about the things they fought about. The days Q spent a runaway were also the days he spent at Nathan’s house.

Nathan didn’t like to talk about it but he and his family was loaded. Nathan’s parents had promised him the family inheritance when he was eighteen on the conditions that he went to the college of their choice. Nathan had intended to keep his promise, but then Q had started figuring out what he wanted to do, what kind of life he wanted to lead. And Nathan had followed Q, picking up the pieces and putting them back together again.

He’d been doing it ever since.

So here they were, a two-decade-old habit of throwing eggs at walls when Q was mad. Nathan had paid for the eggs.

“So what’s the problem?” Nathan asked when the eggs had run out and Q had finished pounding the wall in a last effort to expel the remaining rage. A tear escaped and ran quickly down Q’s cheek.

“I want to not exist anymore,” Q explained, whipping away the stray tear. “The running— it’s getting to me.”

“I’m still good, Q. It’ll be fine.”

Q didn’t smile like Nathan had expected him to.

“There’s something else,” Nathan said, then remembering. “Or someone else.”

“There can’t be.” Q said simply.

Nathan crouched down on the scummy pavement beside his friend. “Q, how many years have I known you?”

“Why does it mat—”?

“Just answer the question.”

“20 years,” Q said without much pause to think.

“How many times in 20 years— 20 long years— have you ever been interested in someone?”

“I can’t remember.”

“The answer is zero, Q. So yes, there can be someone and there will.” Nathan’s tone implied there was no room for argument. He gave Q’s shoulder a quick pat and raised himself from crouching. 

“I washed his number off my arm in the shower.” Q mumbled into his arm.

“Don’t bullshit me Q. 20 years. I know you remember it. Now get up and call the guy, okay?”

Q didn’t respond for five minutes, “Okay.”

°°°

 

The sun was beginning to fall from the sky, cuing the stars and the moon to begin their nightly showing. Nathan had headed back to the hotel half an hour ago after Q had promised him he would call Bond tonight. And he would— but there was courage to be worked up first.

Perhaps he shouldn’t go into this blind. Q could easily do a minor back round check on his laptop back at Brady’s hotel. But Nathan had probably hid it already, thinking one step ahead of Q. 

Calling him was committing to the fall— committing to no control and to the spiraling. But Q hadn’t let himself fall, not ever. Didn’t he owe himself at least one? One window of blind happiness? Nathan said he did and he had to trust that.

Q took out his mobile and flipped it open, staring down at the plastic keys.

Here’s to falling, Q thought as he punched in the numbers he remembered like they were an imprint across his mind.

Bond picked up on the second ring, “Hello?”

The corner of Q’s mouth twitched up at both corners, his voice sounded so hollow over the phone, “It’s Q.”

“I specifically remember saying call quick.”

“I specifically remember you saying you were free for a month.” Q retorted.

“Touché,” Bond laughed across the phone, it still held a weight. “Tonight?”

“I’ll give you the honor.” Q replied.

“Where and when?”

“Brady’s is the only place in the area I know. Now. Pick me up out front?”

“Be there in 20.”

Q hung up the phone and smiled to himself. He pocketed the mobile as he began the ten-minute walk back to the hotel.

°°°

Bond had played it cool as he always did, but the fact he arrived five minutes early on foot played into the fact he was slightly excited. He readjusted his suit and fixed his tie. Bond stretched his arm out to ride up his sleeve and get a look at his watch. It had been seventeen minutes since Bond had hung up.

He shouldn’t remember that.

Bond rubbed a knot between his eyebrows, trying to not think of Q. But the boy was falling his head, blocking out the thought of work and of sex and briefly even alcohol. But knowing that they were gone gave them the pass to come crashing back into his skull, giving Bond a headache. 

What it also did was make Bond realize how far down the rabbit hole he was when he hardly knew this boy. Bond tried to fake debating whether he would let himself continue this way, but he and his mind both knew he didn’t have a choice in the matter. This was something different than random hook-ups— there was something different about Q.

Bond decided he liked different but he didn’t know if this addiction would be good for him. He was about to begin a dangerous balancing act.

°°°

Q had not seen Bond when he arrived at the hotel front so he’d rushed up to the room, quickly explained to Nathan he wasn’t chickening out, grabbed one of Nathan’s sweat shirts (a blue one, Nathan said it matched his eyes; Q scoffed), and ran back downstairs.

He entertained himself by watching his hot breath make clouds seen in the light of nighttime London. Q felt severely under-dressed in crappy trainers, blue jeans and a slightly darker blue jacket. He wondered how he was going to play this; casual and careless? Mysterious and obscure— cute and innocent? Q never played Q. 

He didn’t have much time to consider his options. Bond’s outline came into view through the mass of people milling around and Q raised an arm to attract his attention. Bond’s eyes caught on Q’s raised hand and the corner of his mouth jerked up in to a half-smile. Q felt a blush against the cold night. Bond closed the distance with an easy confidence and brushed Q’s arm with his fingers, quickly dropping them to his side. 

“Hello, Q.”

“Bond.”

“James.”

“Better than Mr. Bond, though.” Q tried his best flirtatious smile. Surprisingly Bond didn’t laugh at his attempt, Q was under the correct impression Bond found it cute.

“True,” Bond chuckled. “Anything you had in mind?”

“I really don’t want to think about the things I’m thinking about. Entertain me.”

“Coming right up,” Bond promised, motioning with his head for Q to follow.

°°°

Bond had dragged Q into a small convenience store tucked into a corner out of the way. Q hadn’t asked— yet— what exactly Bond had in mind. He had told Q to wait outside while he popped in real quick to purchase his distraction.

Q huffed onto his hands he had brought up and into the sleeves of his sweatshirt. It was 10:00 PM now and the temperature had dropped quickly. 

Q heard the bell jingle and looked over to watch Bond emerge from the poster- plastered shop doors. He had a small plastic bag in his hands. Q looked Bond in the eyes, then down at the bag, eyebrows raised in question.

“You’ll see,” Bond said with a dangerous smile. He held out his hand for Q to grab.

Q didn’t know why he had the feeling but he did nonetheless. This was the deciding point, there was no turning back if he took Bond’s hand and followed him. The door had always been locked before to everyone who had passed by. 

But perhaps this man had his own copy of the key.

Q reached forward, deciding, and took a firm hold of Bond’s hand. 

Bond smiled broader and turned to lead Q away from the way they’d come and farther away from the hotel. Q didn’t look back, not once.

°°°


	5. Red String Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond and Q's first date.

Bond had led Q down back alleys fallen deep into the shadows that had risen hours ago. It was 10:33 PM now and Q’s fingers had lost the ability to feel anything but the pain of the chill. His left hand was still interlaced with Bond’s whose outline Q watched against the dim light that filtered through the passages from the main streets.

Black pools and puddles and splashes of the liquid that seemed to inhabit backwater places such as this were commonplace. Crude graffiti danced across the walls in an ungraceful way and old burger and candy wrappers floated around in a thin, ghostly wind.

Q’s right hand was pressed into his mouth where he was casually trying to warm his fingers and nose (which had grown cold as well) without Bond noticing his discomfort. So far it was either successful or Bond hadn’t let Q know he had indeed been aware.

Bond stopped and seemed to think for a moment where two alleys pushed away from each other and flew in opposite directions. 

“We’re not lost are we?” Q inquired through his sleeve, it came out muffled.

“No. No, we’re fine.”

Q liked the way Bond said “we”.

“Okay, lead on then.”

Bond nodded and they took the right tunnel, heading deeper into the concrete twist and turn jungle. After maybe fifteen minutes more, Q started to notice tiny multi-colored lights tapped messily to the wall. They looked like a helping hand leading those who had made it this far the final distance. The graffiti that had been crude before was slowly transforming into something more like art.

They rounded the last corner and the dots of light became little drops that made waves, washing down the deserted back alleys of London. The passed through the last corridor and came into what Q suspected to be their final destination. 

Around them, old brick buildings mended with plaster in some beaten down areas grew from the ground and towered. Like angels they watched overhead as Bond and Q stood and looked up to their desolate might. The floor beneath their feet had turned to a tiled stone and party decorations that seemed so old that someone must have forgotten to take them down and then never remembered to since. Golden tangles of Christmas material crisscrossed from the balcony of the first floor buildings surrounding the courtyard. A few bent origami cranes and dragons were attached to string by paper clip hooks and dangled from the streamers that passed them by. 

Above the dragons and cranes and gold streamers were the lights. Little tiny dots that twinkled with such similarity to stars Q would have guessed them to be related if he hadn’t known better. Q angled his head back to look up farther and see of there was a third level of wonder to this forgotten place. There was a real beauty to it, a beauty Q only saw in broken things repaired. 

Tables dotted the ground in the space that wasn’t cut out for trees nearly towering enough to win the race they raced against the reaching buildings. The top branches were cut short, not nearly enough or perhaps they almost were, Q was too far down to tell properly. The tables were covered in exceedingly blue plastic-coated tablecloths adorned with a print of strawberries colored a juicy red, extenuated by the green borders and leaves that burst around them. Glasses so thin they must have been created by a whisper were speckled atop these blaringly bright tabletops. And a metal menorah that looked quite comparable to iron sat alone on one table with all candles lit. On another, three small, grand old pots sat to form their own triangle and talk of their lives in peace. The table next to the left entertained a white fan with dark slashes of where it had been challenged— the cord dropped off the table to where there was no apparent plug. On the fourth and final table (the space wasn’t too large) a moldy old box bent and spent sat like you would expect a grandfather to in his old age.

Bowls of varying design— plain to intricate china Q doubted was real in all honesty— were set upon mats of cloth and a pale tan woven pattern. From the trees, large 3D star shaped cut outs hung from low and high branches, expelling their light with earnest. From other branches, globes of light hung with a reassuring simplicity and Q knew they were comfortable with what they were. White weed flowers sprung like tipsy laughs from the dirt plots allotted for the trees and orange pots held a single flower in each one. Small stone saints prayed quietly in their nightly vigil and sat undisturbed in the farther reaches of the yard. Divergent patches grass sprouted too green to survive without a caring hand. Green vines snaked their paths across the stone Bond and Q stood upon and used their running momentum to jump with snatching hands to the trees and building supports— eventually tiring and coming to a halt halfway to the second story. Fountains quite different in style (one white wash marble that sprouted three levels and the other sedimentary stone boasting just two) cozied into the grass and vines and pots that held their own special flower. 

This place welcomed Q into its individual mystery with the arms that opened to new born. Love was too meaningless a word to describe the feeling this place gave him. It was more of a simple belonging— Q realized the word. It was home; this strange and fractured garden felt the way Q imagined home would feel like.

“What do they call this place?” Q breathed with a wondering wisp of breath.

“It doesn’t have a name— none that I know at least. It’s been here as long as I’ve been alive.”

“How did you find it?” Q asked, regaining his lost composure.

“A friend of mine maintains it. She lives in one of the flats surrounding this place.”

“Lucky her.”

“Yeah,” Bond said it in the forlorn way like he’d thought the things Q said before. “Lucky her.”

“Can we just sit down?”

“We can, yeah.” Their fingers were still interlaced and hanging to each other like lovers reunited.

Bond led Q to the table with the three wise pots still huddled together in their reminiscence. Q stared at Bond for a long moment, taking in those eyes that reminded him of burning blue stars. My stars, Q thought; I want them to be my stars. Q fancied the way Bond’s ears peeked from the sides of his head and the thin valleys in the man’s that reminded Q of how he looked when he smiled broadly and all encompassing. 

“You’re staring.” He observed in a playful drawl.

“Who wouldn’t?” Q shot back with a relaxed smile.

Relaxed, that was a new feeling.

“Q,” Bond called. “What would you like to talk about?”

“You.”

Bond hid his surprise in a practiced manner, “Me?” he asked with control.

“Yeah, you. Who are you? And I don’t mean what do you do; so don’t give me that answer. I mean, like, — I don’t know. Just talk, please.”

“I lost track of who I am a long time ago. I forgot it back in my past that I don’t care to remember—”

So Q had been right about Bond being broken.

“—and can’t to be frank. I’m a little bit of a drinker.”

“I have a hunch that’s a bit of an understatement.”

“How do you figure.”

“We met for the second time in a 24/7 bar in broad daylight.”  
“And here I thought you were psychic. Too bad.” Bond tried to from to support his vague disappointment but couldn’t manage it with Q looking across at him with a lighthearted smile. 

Q was a refined kind of angelic. When Bond tried to think of himself parting from Q he felt as if Q was a stray piece of Bond him self that fate had sowed back on with her clever strings. 

“But to actually try and answer your question? — I’m an orphan. I’m particularly—”

“—Damaged.” Q finished. “I know, me too. I know wounded when I see it.”

“I do have too many scars.”

“Not physical wound, I mean emotional or psychological. And because I’m wounded too I know you’d rather not talk about it. Right?”

“Right.” Bond gave a smile weakened by Q’s accuracy. “Again.”

“If you could change anything you have ever done what would you change and why?”

“I feel like you read that question on the Internet,” Bond laughed before pausing to answer. “Nothing. I wouldn’t change anything, really. I’m too set in my ways.”

“What ways?”

“Drinking and working then drinking again to forget the work I’ve done.”

Q felt that the word ‘working’ and ‘sinning’ could be exchanged without much break in the sentence’s meaning. This didn’t bother him; Bond couldn’t have done worse or caused any worse things than Q. 

“I know what that’s like. Wanting to forget the work you’ve done. That’s the only way to live a hard life it seems— if you look back you fall off cliffs or trip over boulders and stones.”

“Yeah,” Bond said hazily, trying not to let the memories seep through the cracks in the walls. He needed a drink.

He told Q this. “You want anything?” he added. “You’re legal to drink right?”

“Yeah,” Q gave an aerial chuckle. “I’m 29, turning 30 this May.”

“Only two more months,” Bond noted more to him self than out loud. “What do you want?”

“Water will do. Drinking’s not my vice.”

“I think I’ll refrain for now, too. But there is someone you have to meet.”

Bond jarred Q by shouting, hands cupped around his mouth, a loud, “Eve!” 

After a moment, when there was no reply, Q asked, “How do you know she’s here?”

“She always is,” Bond provided, not looking to Q to deliver the answer. But instead, searching the shades behind windows and wooden doors for signs of movement. Across from the place Bond was looking a door disappeared to give way to a young African-American woman. 

Her hair that spiraled down in dark curls was yanked back and made to behave by what must have been bobby pins (with the aid of a light blue head band). Her ears did not stick out aggressively like Bonds but stood back and away with a refined demeanor. Her eyes couldn’t be distinguished from where Q sat low on the wooden bench. She was swathed in a blue silk robe that was only off from her headband by a couple of shades. 

“Bond?” she yelled, incredulous. “Is that you?”

“Yes darling. Just thought I’d pop by.” He cooed, trying to appease her with his innate charm.

Eve paused a moment, “Who’s that boy with you?”

“He’s hardly a boy Eve. He’s with me.”

Q irrevocably was, he realized. 

“First time you’ve ever brought a date here.” Eve called down.

“Special place, special person.” Bond explained, motioning back to Q.

“Might as well come down and meet the man.” Eve said in a tone so quiet it almost didn’t carry down to them.

“Good idea,” Bond agreed, having guided the conversation to his desired outcome.

“Be down in a minute.”

°°°

After Eve had promised to arrive shortly and shut her door, Bond had rustled through the plastic bag he sat on the bench beside him. He pulled out something black and small, he brought them out onto the table. They were gloves, Q discovered as Bond set them down.

“Sorry, they’re crap.”  
“How did you know?”

“Most people’s hands would be cold in this weather.”

Normally most would be offended by being referred to as ‘most people’. It was the opposite for Q. It was a refreshing thought— the thought of being just another normal person in a normal house on a normal street.

“Thank you,” he said it as sincerely as he could manage. He reached forward for them and pulled them onto his hands. Q could still feel the chill through the thin fabric but Q didn’t mind it anymore. He reached forward with a decisive confidence and grabbed Bond’s wide hand.

“Right?” Q asked vaguely.

“Right.” Bond confirmed. “Everything I know about you.”

“Everything I feel about you.” Q leapt.

Bond squeezed Q’s hand with a warm smile on his face, “Yes.”

Q actualized Bond wasn’t a man of many words, but that word was enough.

Q broke from Bond’s gaze and Bond from Q’s to the steady sound of a pad and thwap on the stairs leading up and away towards the apartments above. Eve appeared from behind a tree, robe still on but a visible white shirt underneath along with the addition of slippers.

She crossed the garden she kept to the table where Q sat silent and Bond chuckling to him self. 

“Eve!” 

“Bond.” She responded with less zeal. Bond stood to greet her, hand outstretched. Eve didn’t give it a glance; she merely popped her head to the side and looks straight at Q.

“Name?”

Q said his name was Q.

“Strange name.”

“Strange man.” Bond retorted playfully, returning to his seat.

Eve joined him; legs tucked under the table to face Q directly, “He’s cute. You know how to pick ‘em, Bond.”

“He’s more than cute,” Bond corrected, his eyes meeting Q’s and keeping them there as he finished his thought, “He’s positively stunning.”

The blush came easily to Q’s pale cheeks. 

“So what do you think of Bond, Q? I’ve never heard him talk so highly of someone before.”

Q resisted the urge to shrug. In truth, he didn’t know how to answer that question so he went with an obvious reply.

“I think he’s human.” Eve didn’t seem to think the answer was ridiculous. “And?” she urged.

“And…” Q continued. “Safe.”

Eve laughed at that. “I’ve never heard that adjective applied to Bond before! You must know a different man.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Eve’s answer had disheartened Q.

“No,” Bond interrupted. “Q’s safe with me.”

Eve stopped to give Bond a stare that Q could not understand and he supposed he wasn’t supposed to anyways. She smiled after a long while and then looked back to Q.

“You’re welcome here anytime you’d like. I live right up there,” Eve said, pointing a delicate finger to the second story. “Apartment 5B.”

Q lowered the intensity on his relieved smile and settled for a simple, “Thank you.” 

Q and Bond watched Eve’s back being swallowed by the tree as she retraced her earlier steps to the stairs, making the same thud and thwap as she had before. Bond’s eyes followed her until her back door closed behind it.

“Got to love Eve.” He said and turned back to Q. “She likes you.”

“Because you do.”

“That’s not how Eve works. She throws people’s bullshit back in their face. She likes you.” Bond finished, repeating him self.

“Is it time for my distraction?”  
“I’d almost forgotten.” Bond turned and rummaged once more— not for long, it was the only thing left in the bag. He pulled out a small plastic package that advertised sparklers in comical and colorful letters.

“Sparklers?” Q asked, taken off guard. “I haven’t played with those since…I can’t remember.”

“Most people can’t.”

There it was again— ‘most’. That’s where the safety came from; it came from the feeling Bond gave him of being apart of a bigger thing and not the tiny sect he lived in.

“Do you have a lighter?” Bond asked.

“Yeah,” Q answered, shoving his hand into his jean pocket to pull it out. Q always left his lighter in his pocket; luckily Macy had remembered to put it back in after she had done the laundry. 

“Here” Bond reached out and took the lighter, setting it down of the table while he ripped open the plastic casing. There were 12 inside. Bond counted out six for Q and handed them to him, he kept his on his side.

Bond picked up a single sparkler and motioned for Q to do the same. He did. Q held out his sparkler to be lit and the flame stuck after a few tries. 

The light burst into being like Q had caused the birth of a universe— a universe that reminded him of being a child. Happy and warm and swaddled in blankets with a heater in the living room to keep him comfortable on rainy days. 

Bond’s lit into bright light a few moments behind Q’s. The dancing light played in its shadows across the dips and curves of Bond’s face, giving him a supernatural look. Bond smiled and looked to Q with the sparkler demanding that all the beauty and perfection in the universe solely exist in this man’s eyes.

They sat like that, smiling and both remembering their own memories, until the sparklers were gone.

After a time, “Why did you have a lighter?”

“Drinking isn’t my vice, smoking is.”

“Why do you smoke?”

“Makes things seem more real,” Q answered, “like the possibility of some horrible disease— like cancer or something like that.”

“You want cancer?” Bond asked dubiously. 

“No, I don’t want it. But I could get it and it gives things an edge.”

“What kinds of things.”

“Just things. Like, that anything— any object or person or book— could be the last time I ever saw it, ever felt it or ever touched it. Just those types of things— my turn to ask. Why do you drink? Really. Besides trying to repress the memories.”

“So I don’t care if it’s the last time I see something or feel it or touch it.”

Q nodded like he understood that. Bond believed he did.

“There’s a quote that I like, it’s about smoking— ‘Giving up smoking is the easiest thing in the world. I know because I’ve done it thousands of times’.”

“Mark Twain.” Bond sourced.

“Yeah,” Q didn’t seem surprised that Bond knew it.

“I want you to remember me, okay?” Q said, staring off at someplace else.

“Why, are you going somewhere?”

Q paused— “I don’t know, I could be.”

Bond thought for a moment about arguing that he wouldn’t let him go anywhere. Or that he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to Q. But Bond knew bad things happened. He knew how things went.

“I’ll remember.” Bond promised.

“Thanks.”  
°°°

When they left the garden it was 2:13 AM. Q had texted Nathan he’d be returning and Nathan had responded with a brief, Okay. Bond and Q traveled back through the waves of tiny starlights until they were less and less. And then they were no more that Q could see.

Reaching the hotel had not taken as long going back; the black puddles and the coarse graffiti were more intimate the second time around. They reached Brady’s hotel in what seemed like half the time it had taken them the first time.

Nathan was waiting with his coat braced against the cold outside the main entrance to the hotel. He waved in big movements when he saw Q and his wave broke for a split second when he saw Bond with him.

When they reached Nathan, the three of them stood still in silent judging. Bond being judged and Nathan doing the deciphering. Q felt a sudden vibration in his pocket; he pulled out his phone and looked at the caller ID.

“It’s Arthur, one second Nathan. I’m going to take this.”

Q smiled at Bond before moving away, one finger in the ear that his phone wasn’t pressed into. Bond stared at Q’s back until he couldn’t see it any longer. He faced Nathan. 

“Q wouldn’t tell you but he’s demi sexual.” Nathan started. “He’s not going to have sex with you unless he loves you. So if you’re in it for that, better clear out now.”

“I’m in it for Q.” It was a realization for Bond. “Is that his real name?”

“No.”

“May I ask?”

“If he trusts you, he’ll tell you. If you plan on sticking around you may just be so lucky.”

“He’s special.” Bond spoke fondly.

“You bet your finely sculpted ass he is.”

“I’m more worried,” Bond began. “That he’ll leave me.”

Nathan shrugged, “It’s complicated.”

Q reappeared from where he’d disappeared. “Nothing urgent.” Q answered Nathan’s question before it was asked. “Just Arthur asking if we wanted anything from the mini-mart.”

“Alright.” Nathan said. “I’ll be upstairs.”

Nathan turned and pushed through the glass revolving doors that radiated the light from the hotel’s interior. Q stepped closer to Bond, closer than they’d ever been since the night they first met and Bond held him close to his chest. Q felt himself wanting that, that feeling he discovered as safety. 

“Goodnight James.” Q whispered in Bond’s ear, his face traveling to be parallel to his. Q leaned forward and brushed his lips lightly against Bonds, not able to pull away as Bond’s lips came on stronger to crush Q’s lips against his own. It wasn’t hungry, it was something else.

Kissing Bond was him repeating ‘most’ and ‘we’ without speaking. It was the safety of his lips and his hand on the back of Q’s neck— it was the unspoken language of the little movements. The way Q stood slightly on his toes to reach him, wrapping his arms around his neck, tracing a line down the back of his neck with the hands covered by the gloves he had bought Q. When they broke away the world felt it would never be safe or the same. Never as safe as he would be when he kissed Bond and never the same for having known such comfort.

“Goodnight Q.” Bond replied in a husky breath.

Q took a step back but didn’t manage a smile. Bond didn’t smile either— it was much deeper than that.

°°°


	6. Red String Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating recently. Recovering from Valentines Day and laziness. You guys know how that goes. Anyways, enjoy. I'm having fun revealing the darker aspects of the plot! Mwahahah. Sorry it's so short.

Q didn’t know exactly what last night was but, of course, it was something. Something new and risky despite how safe he had felt kissing Bond.

Kissing Bond. Kissing a man practically a stranger to Q— and on the first date. 

Though he barely slept, Q slept with the gloves on. The heat was uncomfortable at times to say the least, but it was the last imprint of Bond that Q had until he saw him again— the last imprint besides the memory of the pressure of Bond’s lips against his own. The tickle of hairs rising to attention at the touch of Bond’s fingers brushing the stray strands at the outskirts of Q’s hairline. He remembered it vividly and vigorously. 

It wasn’t so much that the world around them had disappeared but more that Q didn’t care if it was there. Nothing was as important as it should have been— everything was dulled and blunted. Even afterwards, after Bond had wished Q a goodnight and Q had nodded his head, turning and not saying another word. Even after that, Q could not seem to wrap his head around the bubble of blank thoughts that had expanded in his head. He reached for his fingertips, arms already stretched and stretching around the event. But as he walked through the mostly abandoned hotel lobby, only barely finding the elevator (perhaps even only by chance), he couldn’t think through it. 

Bond was something unthinkable. He existed completely separate from the world Q knew. He was his own individual universe and Q hoped he was invited to join it.

“Q?” 

The world readmitted Q into itself. He looked, really looked with focused eyes instead of blurred vision, around. He knew the voice was Nathan’s.

“Nathan.” Q acknowledged without finding his face.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah—” Q assured, not positive why he was being asked that question. Did he look not-okay? “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

Nathan’s face burst into Q’s vision, outlined against the hotel room ceiling, which was a light beige. Nathan’s familiar blue eyes and hair so very pale Q had mistaken it for captured air on occasions.

“You look not-happy.”

“Does that mean I look sad?”

“No,” Nathan said. “Just not-happy. More like there’s something keeping you from looking happy.”

Q grunted and laid his hand over his eyes, blotting out the light along with Nathan’s face. Q felt a hollow in his chest he knew wasn’t physically there. And while he knew what caused it, there was the slightest bit annoyance mixed in. It was Bond, Bond and his cocky smile and steeled eyes and heavy voice. His eyes that were the stars trapped inside a human. 

The broken man that Q could be his broken self with. Someone new and unknown, but not in the menacing way, not the way that you’re worried that you’ll say something wrong. They give you a feeling of two old friends meeting again— so you know that you have already met them, already know that they’ll love you and you’ll love them. And that love will tear and rip and break you into pieces. 

You know you’ve walked through the rain with them and woken up beside them and made coffee or tea in your shared flat in the morning. And then the excitement comes with knowing you’ll get to know them all over again. Learn the way they look down at their shoes when they’re embarrassed or how they act when they’re jealous. They are new in this life but you’ve known them before in another. 

And you know you love them, it is a quick and fast falling too. So quick you try to second-guess. But as you try to tread water you realize you wouldn’t mind drowning, as long as it’s with them.

“No, no I’m happy. I’m good, Nathan. I’m going to be great actually.”

“Alright, well…good. While you were out last night I closed another deal. The team finished up the one job the drinkers commissioned us to do.”

“Good, good. That’s good to hear…”

“I gave the team their cuts, they’re all about shopping now.”

“Good.”

“So I figured we should go out and get you a new bloody coat as well. So get your ass out of bed. We’re going shopping. Let’s be proper young adults, shall we?”

Q smiled from under his arm but he was relatively sure Nathan could see it. Some new clothes wouldn’t be too bad, but there were others things the money could go towards.

“Have you put aside enough money to pay for the room for at least another week? What about for food for the next month or two? Have you—”

“Twenty fucking years, Q. Ten years on the streets with you, six years in this business. Yes I’ve put enough money aside and then some just to make you quit your worrying. The drunks were rich sons-of-bitches— they paid well. So let’s go alright?”

Q lay in the bed for a moment longer, no longer thinking about the money but rather what color Bond would like best on him. He could use some new shoes.

“Alright,” Q sighed and sat up, letting his arm drop to his side. “Alright, let’s go then.”

°°°

It’s funny how time passes without telling you its plans. Bond hadn’t known that fate used that little trick as well. He hadn’t known her tricks and the thing-right-around-the-corners that she tucked up her sleeve. But here he was, staring out the window towards the busy hub of London barely visible through the gap between two buildings. Staring and thinking, that was as usual. But he held no drink and he didn’t desire one either. He didn’t want to forget last night right now— not ever for that matter. He wanted to let it wash around his mind and taste it until he couldn’t stand it any longer (though Bond didn’t think he would ever tire of the memory).

The familiarity of Q’s face was comforting. Bond seemed to know the way he would half smile at certain remarks or the way his face twisted up then relaxed again as he almost laughed at something. The way his eyes looked at Bond as if he was the silliest thing in the world as he blew a huff of air out of his nose. But Q’s face when he didn’t know Bond was looking— that was a face Bond thought he had stared at for years, thought they were years he couldn’t remember. 

Bond’s mind kept jumping back to the way Q stared with far away warmth at the sparklers from the previous night. That and the kiss. The kiss. He wanted to wake up to Q next to him in bed, the sheets crinkled and wrapped around his slim body. He wanted to lean over and kiss Q awake the way he had kissed him good night. He needed to thread his fingers through Q’s energetic curls and look at the way the light hit them when it was hooded with rain. Bond had a craving to trace the edges of Q’s lips lightly with his thumb. And then he started to think of the song the little old woman had taught him. Sing to the one you love she had said and Bond found himself thinking she had known this would happen all along.

So he stood at the window in the direction of Brady’s hotel and he could physically feel the absence of space, the comforting heat, of Q next to him. And he didn’t think of what he would lose and what explanations would have to come. He didn’t worry what would happen in three or four weeks when he went back to work. Maybe he just wouldn’t.

 

°°°

“So you like the blue?” Q asked, playing with the jacket’s sleeve edges. He looked down at the way the jacket hung on him and then to the store mirror. He turned and twisted to different angles, trying to see how he would look from different points of view.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nathan assured. “Blue’s good.”

“Twenty years goes both ways, Nathan. You’re too polite for your own good sometimes. The brown looks better.”

“Yeah, that—”

“It wasn’t a question. I know when I look good.” Q said the last sentence with a cocky smile and confidence he wasn’t serious about.

Nathan smiled up at him from where he sat on the store’s complimentary seating. They had already bought a new pair of shoes for Q, more on the fancy side. Nathan thought they would draw in more business if they looked a tad nicer. Q agreed with him.

“So, I was going to not ask until you brought it up,” Nathan smiled mischievously at Q. “But— I’m going to ask anyways. How was it?”

“How was what?” Q asked, trying to play the fool. He busied himself with looking in the mirror, then he shrugged the coat off and held it in the crook of his arm.

“Don’t pretend to be naïve, Q!” Nathan cried, he realized his volume and compensated, speaking again. “What did you guys do. Sex? Dinner? Both? Neither?” 

“Neither.” Q answered shortly.

“Well now I’m even more curious.” Nathan leaned in as if Q had actually agreed to divulge last night’s happenings.

“I’ll tell you later, Nathan. Let’s just buy this jacket and get out of here. Being in public this long is making me nervous.”

“Don’t be. We haven’t heard or seen from them in a few weeks.” 

Nathan stepped aside and let Q pass up through the narrow aisle leading away from the dressing room area.

“That doesn’t mean they’re not watching us Nathan.”

“It does. They’re not the type to sit back and be patient. They’re aggressive, you know that.”

“I know that I know Nathan. Did you need to remind me? How could I fucking forget?” Q’s words were thrown with venom.

Nathan paused, “I’m sorry. That was bad of me to say. But you have to accept it Q—”

Q rolled his eyes and began to walk away toward the counter, no longer wishing to listen to Nathan’s apology or explanation. Nathan surged forward after him and gripped his arm, spinning him around.

“God dammit Q! Listen to me for once. You can’t ignore me because I’m saying things you don’t want to hear.”

Q didn’t look at Nathan; he stared, stone-faced, towards a group of girls chatting over a blouse.

“Nathan.” Q said in a tone too controlled to be calm. “She died. She died because I was stupid and kept the pen drive for myself. She died and then they all started leaving. Thirty workers to five in two months.”

“Q, it really isn’t your fault. Sarah wouldn’t want—”

“I don’t give a—! You know what, just…just never mind okay? I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“You owe it to her to crack that drive. You haven’t looked at it since you got it Q. You owe it to her.”

Q ran a hand through his hair, stopping mid pull to grasp his hair and pull— attempting to distract himself with the pain from his scalp.

“I know.” Q said softly as he felt strong stinging rising to his eyes. “Let’s just go okay?”

Nathan looked at Q for a moment, his hand in his hair gently tugging and his eyes downcast.

“Yeah,” Nathan said. “Yeah alright”

He knew if he pushed Q too far he would shut down for days. So he stayed silent, they went to the counter and purchased their clothes. They were bagged and then Q and Nathan left through the front door into the street crowded with people. The door made an electronic sound as the excited but they could barely hear it over the din. 

They also didn’t see the man standing a building over, eating a slice of pizza and watching Nathan and Q’s backs as they receded into the crowd.  
°°°


End file.
